"And do you still recollect," said Bertha, "how we …" she hesitated to utter it—"once were almost in love with each other?"
"Yes," he said. "And who knows …"
He was perhaps about to say: "It would have been better for me if I had married you"—but he did not finish the sentence.
He ordered champagne.
"It is not so long ago," said Bertha, "since I tasted champagne. The last time was about six months ago, at the party which my brother-in-law gave on the occasion of his fiftieth birthday."
She thought of the company at her brother-in-law's, and it was amazing how remote from the present time it all seemed—the entire little town and all who lived there.
The young waiter brought an ice-tub with the wine. At that moment it occurred to Bertha that Emil had certainly been there before, many a time, with other women. That, however, was a matter of tolerable indifference to her.
They clinked glasses and drank. Emil embraced Bertha and kissed her. That kiss reminded her of something … what could it have been, though?… Of the kisses she had received when a young girl?… Of the kiss of her husband?… No…. Then it suddenly occurred to her that it was exactly like the kisses which her young nephew Richard had lately given to her.
The waiter came in with fruit and pastry. Emil put some dates and a bunch of grapes on a plate for Bertha.
"Why don't you say something?" she asked. "Why do you leave me to do all the talking? And you know you could tell me so much!"